


Cold Hands...

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M, Romance, Sex & a tiny bit of schmoopiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-24
Updated: 2008-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because truer love had no man than to painstakingly brush through scaling bits of skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Hands...

Curt had shivered hard, sending his already wobbling course straight into Arthur's. Not that Arthur had minded the contact, the brush of their bodies nice, even through layers of winter cloth, an intimacy made discreet under the guise of keeping Curt upright on his skates. But it had been a double-edged sword, as so many things with Curt were, rekindling the banked fire of desire that only ever faded, never died.

But the middle of the park's open-air skating rink had hardly been the place to do anything about that, so Arthur had resorted to distraction instead, teasing, "Why aren't you more acclimated to the cold? Didn't you come from Michigan, which is basically a winter wonderland, isn't it?"

Laconic being his default setting, Curt had just shrugged. "Just not used to it anymore."

It had been a throwaway comment, knee-jerk deflection, but Arthur spoke fluid Curt, and he'd heard the things that Curt wasn't saying. The reasons he always kept the apartment too warm, things Arthur had only half-guessed, but even Arthur's short time of living on the street had taught him that there were dangers there, and not all of them walked on two legs. Cold could kill as well as any knife, and Curt had lived out in it a lot longer than Arthur had.

But while that thought explained Curt's thermostat fetish, it hadn't explained why Curt had come out into the snow with Arthur, willingly, half-smile quirking at the corner of his lips, and gamely skating even when he truly sucked at it. But Arthur had known the answer to that all the same. It was the same fire he felt, always there now, the last holdout against the lonely cold. It was the same thing that Arthur had felt as he'd led Curt away from the very bad skating, down to a stand of pines beside the rink, the sight of Curt's cold-flushed face, his bright eyes, making it impossible to wait for warmer climes.

But the trees had hidden them from prying eyes, and with hands cold and cocks hot, he'd pushed Curt down. And with the ice and snow melting around their bodies, Arthur had pushed deep inside him, both of them scrambling for purchase as Arthur's thrusts skated them along their fresh-made path in the snow, until Curt had reached over his head, grabbing onto a tree, his back arching to get away from the cold, to take Arthur in deeper, both of them pushing and pulling and struggling to reach something even as they struggled to keep from getting there, until they'd come, fallen drops of semen invisible on the snow except for the tiny puffs of steam they created, lost among the greater cloud that rose from their bodies even as sated flesh cooled.

They'd laid there for a moment until Curt had said something about needing his dick for things like peeing and sex, and the way it and his balls were trying to climb their way back into his body couldn't be good for either function, and Arthur had smacked him, though not hard, long used to the fact that Curt never equated romance and sex, saving any tender words for other moments instead.

"Right there, to the left. That's it, only harder. If you do that just a little harder, I'll love you forever."

Moments like this, in fact, with Curt writhing under him, nothing of sex, but oddly full of romance in his blissful happiness as Arthur drew the old hairbrush -- harder than he thought was good, but softer than Curt wanted -- across the peeling cold burns that were on Curt's back.

He hadn't noticed them afterwards, only seeing them when they got home, Curt's back red and ridged like a rash. He'd wanted to take him to a doctor, but Curt had just shrugged at them in the mirror. "They're just cold burns. I get them sometimes if I get too cold. They'll go away by tomorrow, though they'll itch like crazy when they do."

Arthur had inwardly cringed at that further hint of at the earlier part of Curt's life, but he'd accepted the knowledge, however hard it was won. Just as he'd accepted his role as backscratcher when Curt's prophetic statement came true. Because truer love had no man than to painstakingly brush through scaling bits of skin, pale like snow across the dark sheets of their bed.

"Oh my god, that's so good. Hell, that's better than sex."

And truer love had no man than to have Curt Wild beneath them, writhing and moaning and talking about sex, even if in the wrong way, all of it going straight to Arthur's cock, and yet doing nothing more than scratching the itch their last folly had created. Because that fire was always there, only banked, never gone, but Arthur had learned a few things from Curt over the years, not the least of which was that sex and romance weren't the same. And later he'd take Curt back to their bed -- sheets changed, hopefully -- and with warm hands and hot cocks they'd bank that fire again, but in the meantime, there was here and now and the odd romance that came with living with Curt.

"Please, please, please, Arthur, just a little bit harder. God, I'll suck you for hours if you'll just do. It. Harder."

Arthur bit his lip, shivering with something that definitely wasn't cold, and remembered that another thing Curt had taught him was a certain level of pragmatism and healthy self-interest. He scratched harder, thinking they could always change the sheets later.

/story


End file.
